


magnetic field being a little too strong

by oopshidaisy



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mission Fic, Pining, Post-Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation (2015), Tenderness, Undercover Missions, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29087823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oopshidaisy/pseuds/oopshidaisy
Summary: “This is strictly recon,” Ethan says. It’s maybe the seventeenth time he’s said words to this effect since they arrived at the party. “We can’t do anything that’ll raise suspicion. Understand?”*Post-Rogue Nation. Benji and Ethan go undercover and find themselves in one of those spy jams that only surprise kissing can solve.
Relationships: Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt
Comments: 15
Kudos: 62





	magnetic field being a little too strong

**Author's Note:**

> title's from 'gorgeous' by taylor swift

“This is strictly recon,” Ethan says. It’s maybe the seventeenth time he’s said words to this effect since they arrived at the party. “We can’t do anything that’ll raise suspicion. Understand?”

“For the last bloody time, Ethan, I understand,” Benji grumbles, fingers tightening around his champagne glass in irritation. “This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.”

“I know. Just have to make sure.”

“I went to the same briefing you did,” Benji says. Ethan just grins at him, the asshole.

The entrance hall of Timothy Ibsen’s mansion is intimidatingly opulent. It’s the sort of room with two staircases sweeping up from either side, meeting in the center, polished mahogany banisters and marble steps: the whole works. The chandelier twinkling above their heads appears to have five tiers to it, all diamond and gold. The interior decoration scheme is simply _wealth_ : nothing actually matches and nothing has to. Benji hates it.

They’ve been milling around aimlessly for close to an hour, but Ibsen himself has neglected to appear. Their cover is that they’re business partners, lobbying the congressman about corporate tax. So far, Benji’s mainly stayed silently by Ethan’s side while Ethan does all the talking – charming their fellow guests with fictitious anecdotes about their blossoming tech company. It’s obvious that the lack of action is grating on him; Ethan’s single-minded focus on the mission doesn’t lend itself well to long periods of inactivity. Normally, Benji doesn’t mind a bit of waiting around so much, but tonight’s party is insufferable.

“Did this guy invite every absurdly wealthy arsehole in America?” Benji murmurs.

“We just have to stick it out until Ibsen makes an appearance,” Ethan says, nudging Benji reassuringly.

“What if he never _makes_ an appearance?”

“Then at least we got free canapes,” Ethan says, snagging another lobster roll from the tray of a passing waiter. “Oh, look. Up at your ten o’clock. The personal security’s out.”

“Scar under the eyebrow…that’s Frederick Spencer,” Benji says, recalling his picture from the file they have on Ibsen and his associates. When he casts a side-long glance at Ethan, his eyebrows are raised. “What? I did the homework.”

“And you’re passing with flying colors.” Ethan links their arms and directs them to the other side of the room, scanning the crescent-moon balcony. “And…there he is.”

Timothy Ibsen is a severe-looking man in his fifties, wearing a crisp suit and blood-red tie. As soon as he descends the stairs, guests swarm around him, clamoring for attention. Ethan makes no move to join them, so Benji hangs back with him, taking another barely-sip of his champagne. It’s the same crystalline flute he’s had since they entered: Ethan had declined, but Benji had wanted something to hold on to even if he wasn’t, strictly speaking, meant to be drinking.

It’s just disgusting how seamlessly Ethan blends in with every environment and situation that’s thrown at him, all while Benji feels like he’s just barely managing not to make a complete fool out of himself. Ethan looks like he belongs here, tux just on the right side of ostentatious – glinting deep purple under the golden light. Benji, on the other hand, knows he looks like a teenager at a distant relative’s wedding. His suit is gorgeously tailored on the IMF’s dime, of course, but he can’t figure out how to wear it with the confidence that Ethan exudes. They don’t teach that in field agent training.

As if sensing his discomfort, Ethan says, “We’ll be out within the hour, I promise.”

“Yeah, if his admirers ever let up.”

“Oh, I have no intention of talking to him,” Ethan says.

Benji splutters. “But – that’s the mission!”

“No, I was just waiting for him to come downstairs so we can go up.”

“ _We can’t go upstairs_ ,” Benji hisses. “Wait, is this why you told Brandt we shouldn’t bring comms? Because you knew he’d yell at you?”

“Yes,” Ethan replies. “And why can’t we go upstairs?”

“Well, I mean – it’s impolite, for one thing!”

“This man is potentially responsible for the murders of twelve people,” Ethan reminds him.

“That’s – a compelling argument. But how are we even meant to get up there without anyone seeing?”

Ethan shrugs. “I’ll figure something out.”

“I cannot believe you sometimes.”

Benji hates it _so much_ when Ethan does that thing where he quirks an eyebrow and smiles serenely, like he’s in control at all times and it’s everyone else who’s making things up as they go along.

Ethan pulls them into motion again, his arm still hooked around Benji’s. As they make their way sedately around the room, Benji makes note of the complete dearth of available exits; aside from the set of the double doors they entered through, every other door is locked. The members of the wait staff are typing a PIN into a keypad every time they go in and out of the kitchen. It would seem excessive if not for the murder thing.

It’s in the middle of their second circuit that Ethan stops dead in his tracks. Their arms are still linked, and there’s an embarrassing moment where Benji almost falls over before Ethan takes his weight and helps him right himself.

“I’ve got it,” Ethan says.

“No,” Benji says, almost on impulse. “There’s no way we’re getting past the security of a potential murderer, who also happens to be one of the richest people in this country, without being noticed. Unless you can turn us both invisible, which at this point I wouldn’t put entirely out of the realm of your skillset, but—”

“Benji?”

“Yeah?”

“Calm down.” Ethan steps away from him, grabbing the still – unfortunately – almost-full glass of champagne. 

“Hey! I was drinking that.”

“Against regulations,” Ethan – who is currently doing something so flagrantly in violation of regulations that Benji can’t even find it within himself to do anything other than splutter indignantly – grins at him, and then with one swift movement he’s spilling the drink onto the marble floor. “Meet me by the right staircase.”

“Right, okay,” Benji says helplessly, and scampers away while Ethan orchestrates the distraction. Benji tries his best to appear casual, stood at the bottom of the steps and watching while Ethan turns the full weight of his most charming smile onto a woman in five-inch heels. She’s obviously not accustomed to the footwear, tottering slightly even before Ethan leads her in the direction of the spill. Benji winces when she falls, but still – Ethan’s insistence on apologizing to everyone he mildly inconveniences is frustrating when their objective is time-sensitive. The woman’s squeal does attract a large enough crowd that Ethan is able to slip away unnoticed, and – more importantly – the bodyguard’s attention is diverted.

Then all that’s left to do is dash up the stairs without noticing, Ethan’s hand clamped on Benji’s sleeve as if Benji’s forgotten how to move of his own accord. There’s still enough panic down below to cover them: the woman is loudly threatening to sue, and most everyone’s watching the show. It only takes four seconds to get to the top of the stairs, but each of those seconds stretches itself into a panic-numbing eternity.

Once they’ve reached the top, Ethan bodily pulls Benji behind the first available door and kicks it shut – gently, silently – behind them. It takes a few moments for Benji to get his breath back, and all the while they’re both grinning with the sheer adrenaline of it. Benji tries to stifle his smile – it doesn’t do to encourage bad behavior, after all – but it’s hopeless. This is the kind of head-rush that keeps Benji in the field, even when he thinks one of these days he’ll have a spontaneous heart attack in the middle of a mission.

Ethan, of course, is already scoping out their surroundings. They’re in a corridor with an opening to a balcony at the end, three doors on either side.

“We just need to plant a bug or a camera,” Ethan is saying, “and then we can get out.”

“We don’t have any surveillance equip—”

But Ethan is already digging the tiny gadgets out of his pocket.

“Do you just take them everywhere?” Benji whispers. “God, I should have known nothing’s ever _strictly recon_ with you.”

Ethan opens his mouth.

“If you try to argue the semantics of the word ‘reconnaissance,’ I will…track Ilsa down and pay her to punch you in the face,” Benji says.

“You could punch me,” Ethan says.

“Yeah, maybe if you were blindfolded,” Benji mutters. “And that’s not my point.”

“Benji,” Ethan says, calm and placating. “The first rule of being a field agent is that you can’t be afraid to bend the rules.”

Sometimes Ethan says things that are categorically false in such a confident tone that Beni can’t even bring himself to argue. This is one of those times.

“We don’t know if any of these rooms are empty,” Benji points out.

“I know,” Ethan says gravely. Then, with a smirk, “Isn’t it exciting?”

“I hate you. Do we just take a door at random?”

Ethan rolls his eyes and presses an ear to the first door on the right, holding a finger to his lips as though Benji needs reminding to be quiet in the middle of the hornet’s nest. “I can’t hear anyone in here,” he says, and opens the door without waiting for a second opinion.

It’s a study, with an imposingly large desk flanked by two rows of bookshelves. Ethan snickers quietly, gesturing to what populates them: innumerable thick, heavy law books. Benji’s focused more on trying to squash his anxiety down than the irony, but he’s been working on exuding the same kind of careless arrogance that Ethan does, so he forces himself to let out a weak chuckle in response.

“I guess you’ve got to know the law to evade it, huh?” Ethan comments, and Benji is trying _so hard_ not to be that kid at the sleepover who hisses _shut up, we’re gonna get caught_ , but it’s a trial. He watches the door while Ethan slides a paper-thin microphone under the desk, pressing it into place.

There’s a creak right outside the door.

Benji only gets halfway through saying _fuck_ before Ethan is crowding him against one of the bookcases, even though he’s shorter than Benji and shouldn’t technically be _capable_ of crowding him. “Sorry about this,” Ethan says, and then he’s kissing him.

Benji has seen Ethan pull this exact move – and this is a conservative estimate – a dozen times. Somehow, he’s still blindsided by it happening to him. Because (and, really, damn him to hell) Ethan is a good kisser. An _exceptionally_ good kisser. His mouth is soft and undemanding against Benji’s, probably out of respect as a co-worker, but it’s all so overwhelming that Benji barely feels present in the room. Ethan’s hands are on his face, gentle, and he’s pressed up against him from shoulder to shin, and Benji abruptly decides that there’s nothing he’d rather be doing for the rest of his life than this.

So he puts a pin in that.

There’s an analytical part of his mind that never shuts off – that’s what made him such a good technical analyst and he hopes it’s one of his strengths as a field agent – and it means he’s fully aware that Ethan has angled them this way to protect Benji in case whoever it is starts firing. He can also tell that Ethan is doing his utmost to present the image of a passionate embrace without invading Benji’s personal boundaries. It’s all oddly touching, and that’s why, Benji realizes, no one has ever slapped him for doing this.

He keeps his eyes closed for the charade, and because he sort of wants to sink into the kiss like it’s real, but he still has enough presence of mind to listen intently to the sound of the door opening and the shocked intake of breath from whoever’s walked in on them. Ethan pulls back, peeling away slowly with his eyes locked on Benji’s. Benji prays to every deity he can think of that his feelings aren’t as obvious on his face as it feels like they are. When Ethan turns around, he keeps his body positioned protectively in front of Benji’s, facing the – oh, god – teenager who’s walked in on them.

“Uh, hey, kid,” Benji says, and Ethan steps on his toe. Benji shuts up.

“Sorry about this,” Ethan says smoothly. “Would you mind not telling your – it’s your dad’s place, right? Could you not tell him about this?”

The daughter of the target is the tallest person currently in the room, thanks in part to the uncomfortable-looking stilettos she’s wearing. Her dress is lilac and strapless, but she’s hunched over, arms crossed over her chest. And Benji thought _he_ was uncomfortable in his outfit.

“What’ll you give me to keep quiet?” she says. Benji gapes, because this is the daughter of one of the wealthiest criminals in America and she has no conceivable reason to be extorting horny strangers in her dad’s study except – he assumes – sheer bloody boredom. And genetics, maybe. “Also,” she addresses Benji, “he’s _way_ out of your league.”

“Yeah, I know,” Benji says, and Ethan steps on his foot again.

“What do you want?” Ethan asks, in his most subtly cajoling voice. Benji knows that voice well. He has a very complicated love/hate relationship with that voice.

“Prison break,” the girl shrugs. “I’m meant to go downstairs and meet all my dad’s political friends’ eligible sons.” She makes a face. “Pretty soon he’s gonna notice I’m hiding up here and come chew me out. _Unless_ you guys help me escape.”

“I, um,” Benji says. There was nothing in the field manual that covered this precise situation.

“You know my dad voted against gay marriage, like, five times, right?” she says, no shortage of disgust in her voice. “If I tell him you guys were up here making out he probably won’t sponsor your bill or bankroll your careers or whatever. He’s a dick like that. So just get me out and I won’t say anything.”

“I think that’s kidnapping, technically,” Benji points out.

The girl rolls her eyes, pointedly addressing Ethan. “If you got past security on the way up, it figures you’ll be able to get me out. You’ve got a car, right?”

“You’re Francesca, aren’t you?” Ethan says. There’s a perception of Ethan around the IMF that he’s all brawn and no brain, diving headfirst into missions and making it up as he goes along. And there’s a lot of improvisation when you’re on a team with Ethan, yes, but Benji knows that he also does more research than the rest of the force combined. “Your dad keeps a picture of you on in his office on the Hill.”

If the second part is a bluff, it’s a decent one. “I go by Frankie,” she sniffs disdainfully. “And I hate that picture. You’re not going to convince me to stay, so we might as well just get on with it.”

Ethan sighs. “You know the house better than we do. Is there any other way to get downstairs?”

“Not unless you count the windows.”

“I’m _not_ climbing out a window,” Benji responds. He hopes Ethan can hear the unsaid, _Not this time_. He’s been forced to climb out of or over things at various undignified points over the course of their last few missions, and he’d been _promised_ a relaxing, low-key night.

“You don’t have to, love,” Ethan says, which, embarrassingly, makes Benji’s stomach do somersaults. He turns back to Frankie. “What about the balcony?”

“Tried that,” Frankie says. “It’s never worked.”

“Okay,” Ethan muses. He looks at Benji with a small, lopsided grin. “Sweetheart, you’ll just tell the gentleman on the stairs that you came up here looking for a bathroom and leave the party that way. Frankie and I will find a window to climb out of.”

Benji tries to think of a way to point out that this is objectively insane without revealing that they’re secret agents. “This is objectively insane,” he settles on.

“We’ll be fine,” Ethan says.

“And after we’re done with the kidnapping?”

“Dude, I’m seventeen,” Frankie says.

“Good for you,” Benji hisses. “It’s still a felony.”

“Do you have a friend’s house we can drive you to?” Ethan asks.

“Sure.”

“There,” Ethan says. “We’ll drop her off, she’ll text her dad and let him know she’s alright, and no one will know we were here.”

“Honey,” Benji says through gritted teeth, “if you two aren’t in the car in fifteen minutes, I will drive away without you. I’ll elope with Luther. He’ll treat me right.”

Ethan lets out a bark of laughter. “Okay, see you in ten.”

*

Benji drums his fingers against the steering wheel, taking steadying breaths. Getting past the hired security a second time had rated at a moderate level on Benji’s personal scale of stress, but he’d managed to act tipsy enough to divert suspicion. If anyone finds the bug in the office, it’s another story – but Benji helped design that technology and he’s confident that it’s undetectable. Then he’d called headquarters to explain the whole situation, listened to Brandt laughing his ass off for a full six minutes, and now he’s concentrating on the breathing techniques Julia had once taught him for anxiety. He’s a good spy.

After thirteen minutes and twelve seconds, Ethan knocks on the passenger window. He doesn’t have a hair out of place, which makes Benji hate him a lot. Francesca, behind him, has changed into jeans and a t-shirt, explaining the excess three minutes.

“Your boyfriend’s kind of a badass,” she comments, climbing into the backseat.

“I’m aware,” Benji sighs. Ethan smirks at him and brushes a reassuring thumb against his wrist. It’s most likely a performative gesture, but it goes further toward calming Benji down than the breathing exercises did. “Okay, deviant child, where to?”

Frankie tells him the address and Benji dutifully types it into the sat-nav, at which point Ethan clasps their hands together with a side-long look that manages to transmit, _This okay?_ Benji nods, and Ethan doesn’t let go for the length of the drive to the friend’s house. 

“Please don’t run away for good,” he requests when they pull into the driveway of the destination, a much smaller family home with a sensible Volvo parked out front.

“Is he always like this?” Frankie asks Ethan. Ethan, solemnly, nods. “Jesus, living with him must be a _trip_. I just want my dad to stop setting me up with dumb assholes, okay? Thanks for the ride. Sorry about the blackmail.”

 _You learned from the best_ , Benji almost says, but he might actually get fired if he blows a whole operation for a cheap jibe at a teenager, so he lets it go.

Once she’s gone, Ethan says, “She was nice,” without a hint of irony.

*

“You were extorted by a seventeen-year-old girl,” Brandt recaps. It is not the first time he’s said it, and the delight has yet to leave his voice. 

Ethan is sprawled on a chair, eating an apple with the air of someone with absolute job security. He’s abandoned his jacket and bowtie, and has opened two buttons at the top of his shirt. Benji wonders, not for the first time, if Ethan is secretly enacting a campaign of torture.

“There are worse assets to have,” he says. “I gave her our number, in case she has any more problems with her dad.”

Benji gawks at him.

“You help someone escape through a window, you gain some trust,” Ethan responds serenely.

“And you were pretending to be a couple,” Luther says.

“You’re not even supposed to _be here_ ,” Benji groans. “You get one day off a fortnight. Don’t you have hobbies?”

“This is more entertaining than a movie,” Luther says.

“I can’t believe you called him.” Benji points an accusatory finger at Brandt. “We are meant to be _professionals_.”

“You know, we have an audio recording of everything that happened in that study,” Brandt says. “If I were you, I’d be extra polite and respectful to your boss right now.”

“Are we done?” Benji asks, waving a hand between himself and Ethan. “You said we’d debrief tomorrow, and I have a date with a large pizza to get to.”

Ethan hops up. “I’ll give you a lift if you let me have a slice.”

“Uh,” Benji says. “I have a car.”

“I know. I’ll drive it.”

Luther gives them an exaggerated wolf-whistle on their way out; Benji responds with the two-fingered salute. He’s trying to distract himself from the unnerving thump of his heartbeat, heading out with Ethan by his side.

“Sorry about – everything, tonight,” Benji says, once they’re ensconced in his car.

“I think that’s my line,” Ethan says.

“No, it’s fine, the—” Benji swallows. “—the kissing thing, it works. Normally.”

“It worked this time, too.”

“Yeah,” Benji says. He clears his throat. “It did.”

It’s always surprised Benji that Ethan obeys traffic laws when nothing’s at stake. There’s something downright odd about being in a car with Ethan when he’s driving at below a hundred miles per hour and stopping for red lights. Even accounting for the uncharacteristic caution, Ethan still gets them back to Benji’s apartment faster than Benji could’ve managed. He’s beginning to suspect that it’s a universal conspiracy, the way everything works out for Ethan.

“Can we get pepperoni this time?” Ethan asks, when they’re pulling into the parking lot outside the building.

“Only if it’s with stuffed crust,” Benji says, “and garlic bread. And you’re paying.”

Ethan smiles at him, eye twinkle in full force. “Well, of course.”

He leads the way to Benji’s door and holds out a hand for the key when they reach it, because Ethan Hunt has a controlling personality and a hundred other flaws, which Benji should probably do a better job of keeping in mind.

This is safer territory – the familiar friendship that’s built up between them over the decade they’ve been working together: uncomplicated. They get inside and Ethan swans over to the couch, kicks his feet up. Benji grabs a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge and pours it liberally into two mugs while Ethan dials the pizza place.

“The wine was ten dollars,” he says, handing Ethan the Iron Man mug he favors, “try not to be a dick about it.”

“That’s more expensive than last time,” Ethan notes. “You trying to impress me?”

“Your complaints were noted,” Benji says, dry as he can manage with his pulse hammering in his ears.

This isn’t a regular occurrence, by any means. Ethan spends maybe three months out of every twelve in the US. He’s only here right now because they’re being loaned out to the FBI for the Ibsen case. More often than not, these days, they’re on the same team, but it doesn’t leave them with a lot of downtime. Watching Russian television in a foul-smelling room while waiting for news on an illicit arms deal is one thing; this is another.

Besides which, Ethan’s work ethic is formidable. Benji hadn’t even known he did things like eat pizza and indulge in gossip until Ethan had invited himself round after a mission a few years ago. Before that, Benji had just assumed that spending ten hours in the gym and then an additional four hours training new recruits was Ethan’s idea of fun.

“Okay, so, this guy wasn’t talking, and we really needed to know if he’d hacked into Howard’s personal computer,” Benji’s saying: Ethan had spent most of the last month in Europe, in an undisclosed location doing god-knows-what, and Benji considers it his job to catch him up on all the gossip he’s missed. “And, finally, after eight different agents had a crack at him, someone decides to let ol’ Benji have a go, so I go in there and this kid – he was twenty years old, maybe? Anyway, it was a bit like looking at myself when I was that age. Genius loner sort of thing. And I was thinking about what I would’ve wanted more than anything back then, and uh – long story short, I threatened to tell him a spoiler for the new Star Wars if he didn’t talk.”

“And?” Ethan asks, taking a sip of his wine and charitably not making a face of disgust.

“Full confession.”

“You’re kidding,” Ethan says.

“No,” Benji laughs, “I swear to god.”

“I’ve never actually seen _Star Wars_ ,” Ethan says thoughtfully.

Benji sits in stunned silence, gaping.

“I knew that’d get to you.”

“No, it’s just,” Benji says, “you’d love it _so much_. I’m trying to figure out if you’re more of a Luke Skywalker or Han Solo person. This is important.”

“Why?”

“It helps me to determine which order I’m going to show them to you in.”

“Tonight?”

“No, not – it’s midnight, we don’t have time to watch seven movies before the debrief tomorrow. We’re doing it next time we get a full day off.”

“Alright.” Ethan leans back in his seat. “Han Solo is Harrison Ford, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m a Han Solo person. I used to have the biggest crush on Indiana Jones.”

“Makes sense.” Benji’s throat feels scratchy. He’s trying to remember if straight men make jokes about having crushes on male fictional characters, and is drawing a complete blank. Maybe he can sneak out for a second and text Brandt for answers. That’s when he knows he’s lost all the remaining shreds of his sanity; asking Brandt for advice on making a move would be like asking Ilsa Faust how to care for small fluffy bunnies. “I was always more of a Luke guy, m’self.”

“How does it affect the order?” Ethan asks. He has this way of – it sounds like he really cares about the answer, like he’s not just humoring Benji for the sake of being polite.

So Benji counts off on his fingers: “For Han we watch the originals first, then the new one, and maybe leave out the prequels; with Luke you start with the prequels and for Leia you go in machete order.”

Ethan quirks an eyebrow. “Sounds complex.”

“Three months ago you disarmed a bomb with a toothbrush,” Benji says. “This isn’t beyond you.”

“The bomb was easy.”

“Of course it was.” Benji rolls his eyes. “Like, I know this is nerd stuff, but how can you exist as a human in the twenty-first century without ever having seen _Star Wars_?”

Ethan nudges Benji’s foot with his own. “Is this the segue into your theory that I’m a robot again?”

“ _Cyborg_ , and you’ve got to admit that it makes sense.”

It’s at this point that the doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of the pizza. True to his word, Ethan gets up to pay with a wink.

Benji, cheeks hot, polishes off his wine and pours out refills for himself and Ethan. In retrospect, it was stupid for him to think spending the rest of the evening together would be a return to normal. He can’t stop overanalyzing Ethan’s words and gestures, his stupid brain trying to find a way to prove they mean something they don’t. Every time he thinks he’s managed to push it to the back of his mind, the memory of Ethan kissing him resurfaces, bringing with it a longing that Benji hadn’t known himself capable of.

He’s been thinking this crush will go away for the better part of a decade at this point, thinking that its evolution from distant hero worship to a friendship tinged with want heralded an eventual recovery.

He’s an idiot, but that’s not news to anyone.

When Ethan comes back into the sitting room, he’s got a pizza box balanced in one hand and three bags in the other.

“Is one of those a salad?” Benji asks, suspicious.

Ethan blushes, which is wonderful. “One of them’s cookies,” he says.

“If you actually eat one I will go into shock.” Benji makes grabby hands and Ethan passes him the pizza. “And, as usual, you’re going to force me to eat three-quarters of this to satisfy your absurd need to have the body of a twenty-five-year-old health freak.”

“A true health freak wouldn’t order pizza in the first place.”

“That’s a very all-or-nothing way of looking at the world,” Benji says philosophically, before devouring half a slice with one bite. Ethan laughs and slots himself next to Benji on the sofa.

It’s a break in the routine; Ethan normally sticks to the armchair. The sofa isn’t tiny, but it’s not big enough to keep the kind of distance Benji usually tries to enforce where Ethan is concerned. His breath catches.

Benji’s starting on his second slice when Ethan’s phone buzzes. Benji looks at him curiously, because it’s midnight and Ethan has about two friends who aren’t him.

“It’s Frankie,” Ethan says. He sounds fond, as Benji is sure he does about all the people who blackmail him and make him commit crimes.

“That’s,” Benji says. “That’s your real phone.”

Ethan fixes him with an indignant look. “I do know how to set texts to forward to this number,” he says. “I can do tech stuff.”

“Yeah, you’re a whiz,” Benji responds, relaxing back into the couch with a third slice. “What’s she saying?”

“She wants advice.”

“If she’s planning on running away, don’t help her.”

“No, she’s got a crush on her friend,” Ethan says. “The one whose house we dropped her at.”

“Ah, _that_ one,” Benji says. “Wait, why’s she texting the first middle-aged man she meets about her teenage crush?”

“She thought we were cute together.”

Benji focuses, hard, on chewing.

“And she’s using gender-neutral pronouns to refer to her friend.”

“Oh my god, did you seriously get yourself a baby gay to mentor?” Benji would laugh, except for how his life is a farce.

Ethan, for his part, looks lightly thrilled by this development. He spends a minute typing.

“I’ve asked her to tell me more about her friend,” he announces.

“I can take over if you want,” Benji says.

“Why?”

“Um,” Benji says, “because I’m possibly a little more experienced with the whole ‘gay crush on a straight friend’ issue?”

Ethan stares. “Okay, first: we don’t know her friend is straight.”

“Well, I’m just assuming—”

“ _And_ you’re assuming that I’m straight. Which is – a lot of assuming.”

Without moving an inch, Benji experiences the sensation of missing a step on a flight of stairs.

“I mean, I never assumed _you_ were straight,” Ethan continues, seemingly oblivious to the crisis Benji is going through.

Benji declines to remind Ethan that, when Benji met him, he was married to a woman. He doubts it will win him any points in the conversation. Besides which, Julia and Benji used to meet for coffee once a week and she’d mentioned more than one ex-girlfriend, so it’s not as if bisexuality would have been a novel concept within the marriage.

“Okay,” he says, “well, I’m not. Straight.”

“Me neither,” Ethan replies, still sounding awfully indignant for a man who has shown roughly zero signs of being attracted to men in the decade Benji has known him. Since Julia, Ethan hasn’t shown much of a sign of being attracted to _anyone_. He hasn’t mentioned so much as a date. It’s all very romantic, with Julia as his one true love who he’ll never get over.

Benji clears his throat. “Did Frankie reply yet?”

“Her crush is a girl,” Ethan answers.

“That’s nice.”

“What is a My Chemical Romance?” Ethan asks.

“Christ,” Benji says. “They’re a band. Probably good news if the girl she likes is into them.”

Ethan nods like this is sage advice and goes back to typing. Benji takes another fortifying gulp of his wine.

Then he runs his stupid mouth.

“You think she should tell her?”

Beside him, Ethan pauses. “It depends,” he says, slowly. “It could – make things awkward, couldn’t it? Damage the friendship.”

Benji makes a noise of agreement. “It’s a risk.”

“Worth it, though,” Ethan says. “Potentially.”

“Not if the friendship’s really, _really_ important. Or if they work together.”

“They’re teenagers.”

“Go to school together,” Benji corrects himself, wincing. “If they have to see each other every day.”

“Benji,” Ethan says. Just that.

It’s cruel, because now the ball’s in Benji’s court and he has no fucking clue what to do with it.

“Why did you have to kiss me like that?” he says, giving up.

“The mission—”

“Fuck the mission,” Benji says. “I mean, why’d you have to kiss me _like that_? Like—”

But he can’t say it.

“Like I loved you?” Ethan suggests, very quiet.

“Don’t,” Benji says. He tries to keep his voice light, normal, but there’s something broken and hurt inside the word. “Not if you don’t mean it like that.”

He’s not meeting Ethan’s eyes – hasn’t looked directly at him since the damn texting began. Instead, he looks down at his hands, which are twisting into each other, damp with sweat.

Even so, he can tell Ethan is smiling when he next speaks, simply from the shape of the words.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Benji.”

“Actually—”

“Not about this.”

It’s Ethan’s hand on his face that finally causes Benji to turn his head. There’s no pressure behind it; Ethan trails light fingers along the shape of Benji’s cheekbone and Benji, for his part, tries very hard to breathe normally.

“This is a dream,” Benji announces. “I’m having a dream right now. Or—”

“You’re an idiot,” Ethan cuts over him, warmth leaking from every part of him, from his forest-green eyes to his voice to the pads of his fingers, still soft against Benji’s burning face.

Benji doesn’t get a chance to respond before Ethan’s mouth is on his – and that’s when he _knows_ he’s not dreaming, because there’s no way he could have imagined the way this feels. It really is – Ethan kisses the way he does everything, like it’s the most important thing in the world, like nothing else matters. Both of his hands come up to cup Benji’s face, unbearable in their gentleness. Benji makes a small sound, muffled, and manages to get his own hands to co-operate, slipping one under the back of Ethan’s shirt. If it’s too fast, too greedy, Ethan doesn’t object; on the contrary, he brings them closer together, not pausing in kissing Benji for even a second.

Ethan’s phone vibrates loudly between them, and Benji jumps, pulling away.

“I should get that,” Ethan murmurs. With his thumb, he traces the shape of Benji’s still-open mouth.

“Mm,” Benji agrees. “Can’t keep your baby gay waiting.”

When Ethan laughs, his eyes crinkle endearingly at the corners. Having been granted tacit permission to do things like this, Benji reaches out to touch.

“Don’t distract me,” Ethan says. “I have important advice to give. She should tell her friend how she feels.”

“Yeah,” Benji responds, grinning. His mouth is tingling with something like aftershocks. “She should.”

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in the works for more than a year and a half? and at least once a month i would open the file and edit what i had so far and think 'wow, i really like this, i should finish it' and then i'd close the file and the cycle continued until it had taken me twenty months to write 6000 words. anyway, hope you enjoyed the fruits of my labour!
> 
> i'm on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/oopshidaisy)


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